Bravery in Personal Poetry

I don’t often share my poetry, which I write quite frequently. I have no formal training beyond the bits and pieces from high school education. But then really, how formal does poetry need to be?

Sometimes, sharing what is deeply personal to me is quite hard. I know you know what I mean. So thank you for reading what lies below.

I am overflowing.
Like a creek.  Like a coffer.  Like a heart that is full of something delicious.
I am golden, in the shade and in the sun.
I am a rich green, like a field who has been nourished.
And I am deep, dark black that shifts with the world and shifts the world itself.  I draw in, push out, and swirl things around.

In the past I have been like a tornado.  Changing landscapes with no thought.  That was a blessing and a curse.
I have also been like a sinking ship.  My riches drowning in something I couldn’t comprehend.  Now I have the smarts to abandon ship.

My ship is fast and flexible, well, almost.  My ship is becoming fast and flexible when she needs to.  She is made of the finest lumber, salvaged old growth from un-nameable trees.  Her sails are silk.  Her crew is international.  Her hull is solid.  She is unafraid of any waters, most of the time.

And this…

When is enough enough?
Does it take an explosion of might? Or witnessing the end of a hair break? Sometimes it is the smallest of things that generate change, 6 years in the making.

I feel like a fly stuck on paper. A woman, whose head looks like a market full of used lampshades and knives and skis. A horse, struggling through mud, stuck in the thick of it.

And yet I am not those things. I am pure shining hope. I am a rainbow that makes you stop and think. And I am my dreams, spilling out of me every night.

I wonder, in one year from now, where will I be?

And finally, this…

The lamp is broken.
I sent away for the proper part and it is a long time coming. But it is coming.

Until then I keep feeling my way when the sun creeps below ground.
I stumble, but somehow it seems graceful.
My head bumps rock, but somehow I welcome the sensation amidst my curses.

When the part does arrive I might fix the lamp. Make sure it is in working order. And then store it in my heart, where it belongs.

 If you’re feeling brave, then share one of your own poems below. Thanks again.

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